How are things on the other side of legitimacy, self?I saw you floating (third person mosaic) on the highwaythrough the apple-maggot-quarantine regions, or justsauntering across the back of your hand.

How were things when (completely in the moment)you screamed fuck fuck fuck fuck at the top of yourlungs as though words (not uncommon in poetry) coulderase the action proceeding like the prologue of a playyou've written, enacted, retracted, stared on Broadway,slept with the director, and watched flop into obscurity.

How are thingsin the momentself?

How was it when slightly suicidal you thought to endit all in one smooth finally? One more twist of the roadand then you could melt away like the coming ofheat. Birth yourself into sweeter-still oblivion.

Become freeof forethought?

Free of guilt.

How were things when you said that you were in lovewith the sky? That same sky dead as your shoes wovea tale of sound into the cold breaking of the dusk.

How were things before you knew the edge ofself reliance? After defiance of youth? When youwere smarter being younger, though dumbernow that you're older.

How did you survive self?

Screamingat the top ofyour lungs like that?

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